


Meeting Feyre

by Kitashi



Series: Through Eyes of Courts and Fate [6]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Azriel POV, F/M, Hints of Feysand, Hints of Moriel, Night Court Squad dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:24:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitashi/pseuds/Kitashi
Summary: Chapter 16 of A Court of Mist and Fury from Azriel's POV.Rhys had requested they all meet for dinner, to finally meet the infamous and elusive Feyre. But spymasters don't just stop observing when they're in comfortable situations, and sometimes the shadows have interesting insight...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starsmayfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsmayfall/gifts).



> This fic has been a loooooooonnnnnngggggg time coming! This was a request I received very early in my reentry into writing fanfiction by starsmayfall, & I just kept saying I would do it eventually. I originally wanted to have this done for Moriel Week on Tumblr, but there ended up being no way due to work and life being too dang busy. But here it is!
> 
> So I am so sorry this took so long to actually write, but I hope you like it! :)

I wasn't sure what to make of this girl.

Dressed for a fancy dinner, she reminded me a bit of Mor, who dressed like that simply because she felt like it. However, this girl’s gaunt face and thin figure made me wonder what hellhole she’d been locked up in. One did not get so emaciated overnight. 

_ Spring. _ The shadows whispered. As soon as they said it, I could smell it. There was still a hint, though made less by her proximity to Rhys, of the floral roses of Tamlin's Court in her pores.

Ah.

Cassian chuckled as he looked at her. “Come on, Feyre. We don't bite. Unless you ask us to.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Cassian’s attempts at flirting were cringe worthy sometimes.

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets. “The last time I heard, Cassian, no one has ever taken you up on that offer.” I couldn't hold back my snort. 

Not to be outdone, Cassian surveyed Rhys, decked out in his High Lord clothing. Even all these centuries later, it still was so strange—almost disconcerting—to see him without his wings and fighting leathers when we came to Velaris. At least tonight he had kept his wings. “So fancy tonight, brother. And you made poor Feyre dress up, too.” He winked at her, doing his best to make her feel more at ease around us. But I could feel her fear. And her curiosity.

“This is Azriel—my spymaster.” Feyre didn't seem to be surprised by Rhys's introduction of me. 

“Welcome,” I said, extending a hand towards her. I knew she was taking in our appearances, but she grasped my hand in greeting, not even a flinch to suggest she was repulsed by my scars. She did step back towards Rhys quickly though, clearly nervous. She was a curious thing indeed. 

“You're brothers?”

“Brothers in the sense that all bastards are brothers of a sort,” Rhys clarified.

“And—you?” She asked Cassian. I couldn't help but wonder if Rhys really hadn't told her  _ anything _ about us.

Cassian shrugged, tucking his wings in tight. “I command Rhys's armies.”

Feyre seemed almost uncomfortable at the thought, much to Cassian's amusement, and I couldn't help the thought that crossed my mind next.

Spy _. _

And yet… if she was a spy, she was either the worst one I’d ever seen, or the best, because she hadn't stopped looking around nervously since the moment they’d arrived. But the shadows, my comforting, truthful friends, disagreed.

_ Friend… _ they whispered. They hadn't steered me wrong in centuries. I felt myself relax, but only a little. A healthy dose of caution never hurt in my line of work. 

“Cassian also excels at pissing everyone off,” I said, trying to break the ice. “Especially amongst our friends. So, as a friend of Rhysand… good luck.” Cassian nudged me out of the way, causing me to flare out my wings slightly to keep from losing my balance.

“How the hell did you make that bone ladder in the Middengard Wyrm’s lair when you look like your own bones can snap at any moment?” he blurted out. I gritted my teeth, trying to keep my face passive. The thoughtless loudmouth. If Feyre didn't know we weren't Under the Mountain before, she certainly did now.

To my surprise, she met Cassian's gaze, a dim ember burning in her stormy blue eyes. “How the hell did  _ you _ manage to survive this long without anyone killing you?”

Cassian tipped back his head and laughed fully. I raised my eyebrows in approval and tried to hide a smile in my shadows. She had some fight in her, and wit to match. Feyre turned to Rhys, who was looking towards the door warily.

Suddenly, I heard the voice that was the source of all my unrequited dreams and heartbreaking nightmares.

“If Cassian’s howling, I hope it means Feyre told him to shut his fat mouth.” Cassian and I both turned toward Mor as she breezed into the balcony. 

Whenever she came near me, it was hard to focus on anything but her. Even my shadows quieted in her presence, as if she was the center of all we knew. I couldn't help giving her outfit an appreciative look, her red, flowing chiffon gown accented with gold cuffs, her golden hair woven with combs of gilded leaves. She was a sight to behold. 

A shadow curled around my ear, breaking me from my trance. I snapped my eyes to my left, seeing Feyre staring at me. Watching me. She quickly pasted an innocent look on her face, but not quickly enough. 

“I don't know why I ever forget you two are related,” Cassian told Mor, jerking his chin at Rhys, who rolled his eyes. “You two and your clothes.”

Mor bowed to Cassian. “I wanted to impress Feyre. You could have at least bothered to comb your hair.”

“Unlike some people, I have better things to do with my time than sit in front of the mirror for hours.” His tone was joking, but I sensed the underlying fight in his words. He had shifted his feet slightly further apart into a fighting stance.

If Mor had noticed, she wasn't ready to stop ribbing him yet. “Yes,” she said, tossing her beautiful golden hair over her shoulder, “since swaggering around Velaris—”

“We have company,” I interrupted softly. The last thing we needed was for these two to start a fight in the house, especially when we had company that wasn't used to our interactions. I spread my wings slightly, herding them into the dining room, trying to put distance between them.

Mor patted my shoulder as she dodged my wing, causing my nerves to stand on end in that spot. “Relax, Az—no fighting tonight. We promised Rhys.”

I could feel my shadows quiet again and I dipped my head, allowing my hair to hide the blush that darkened my skin. If she only knew what her smile did to me. 

Mor curved her fingers toward Feyre. “Come sit with me while they drink.” I could see Feyre's stance was already stiff from nervousness, though it didn't stop her from walking up to Mor and following as Mor chatted with her. Mor was probably happy she had someone new to talk to. Cassian and I hung back with Rhys, who despite his usually excellent poker face whenever someone outside our family joined us looked at Feyre with such love as she walked away into the red and warm stone room. I’d never seen such an expression on my brother's face.

“So… this is Feyre?” Cassian asked quietly, his tone not near as mocking as I thought it would be, though he nudged Rhys with a wide, suggestive grin. Rhys snapped out of his love struck stupor, and nodded, not saying anything. We had heard her the day she had first come to Velaris, when Rhys had kept us locked in the entryway while she made her escape upstairs. I had been curious about her ever since that day, but it seemed she didn't like to venture into public often, and judging from how jumpy she was, she’d probably have been scared if we had just walked up to her and begun talking to her.

A whispering wind opened the dining room doors, as Amren entered the room with a regal bearing that made it seem like everyone and everything revolved around her. Despite her small stature, my shadows regarded this tiny, ancient being with respect, even a little fear. She walked straight up to Feyre, regarding her with what I’d come to see as curiosity over the centuries, her silver eyes smoky and swirling with questions. Mor let out a groan, and I fought a smirk. It was amusing to say the least that both the Second and a Third of the Night Court were notoriously uninterested in sharing, especially with each other. But Amren's power thrummed off of her in a constant hum; a reminder of what she could do if she ever wanted to. 

“Your taste remains excellent, High Lord. Thank you.” Her fingers brushed a brooch pinned to her smoky grey outfit. If she hadn't brushed it or said it, I wouldn't have known it was new; she hoarded treasure like a drake in that regard, and only she and maybe Rhys actually knew what she had.

“It suits you, Amren,” Rhys said respectfully. Though he was the High Lord, he had no delusions that Amren wouldn't end him where he stood if she felt like it.

“Everything suits me,” she said matter of factly, and took a harder look at poor Feyre, who was putting on a brave face despite her fear. After a moment, she spoke again.

“So there are two of us now.”

Feyre looked genuinely confused, but to her credit didn't ask.

“We who were born something else—and found ourselves trapped in new, strange bodies.” Amren was being more patient than usual; it was somewhat unnerving to see her so… accommodating.

Amren jerked her chin toward a chair beside Mor, which Feyre took, and sat across from her. I sat next to Amren; it was easier to watch Mor discreetly if I wasn't directly in her view. Rhys sat next to Feyre, and Cassian on Amren's other side.

“Though there  _ is _ a third,” Amren said, turning to Rhys. “I don't think you’ve heard from Miryam in … centuries. Interesting.”

“Please just get to the point, Amrem. I'm hungry,” Cassian whined. Mor choked on her wine and I looked at Amren and Cassian very carefully, ready to react if necessary. My brother just couldn't keep his mouth shut when it was good for him.

“No one warming your bed right now, Cassian?” Amren simpered. “It must be  _ so _ hard to be an Illyrian and have no thoughts in your head save for those about your favorite part.”

“You know I’m always happy to tangle in the sheets with you, Amren,” Cassian replied, utterly unfazed. “I know how much you enjoy Illyrian—”

“Miryam,” Rhys interrupted, as Amren's smile became serpentine, “and Drakon are doing well, as far as I’ve heard. And what, exactly, is interesting?” 

Amren's head tilted as she turned her gaze toward Feyre again, her verbal sparring with Cassian forgotten. He was only lucky Rhys had intervened when he did. “Only once before was a human Made into an immortal. Interesting that it should happen again right as all the ancient players have returned. But Miryam was gifted long life—not a new body. And you girl…” She sniffed again, and for the first time in all the centuries I’d known Amren, I saw an expression I didn't even know she was capable of: surprise. She narrowed her gaze at Rhys who nodded in confirmation. I couldn't help but wonder what she had noticed that the rest of us hadn't, that Rhys clearly knew. However, she recovered quickly. “Your very blood, your veins, your bones were Made. A mortal soul in an immortal body.”

“I’m hungry,” Mor said, breaking the serious nature of the conversation. With a snap of her fingers, our plates were piled high with roast chicken, greens, and bread. Our staple family dinner. “Amren and Rhys can talk all night and bore us to tears, so don't bother waiting for them to dig in.” She picked up her fork, clicking her tongue and turning to Feyre. “I asked Rhys if  _ I _ could take you to dinner, just the two of us, and he said you wouldn't want to. But honestly—would you rather spend time with these two ancient bores, or me?”

“For someone who is the same age as me,” Rhys drawled, “you seem to forget—”

“Everyone wants to talk-talk-talk,” Mor said, giving a warning glance at Cassian, who had indeed opened his mouth. “Can we eat-eat-eat, and  _ then _ talk?”

I couldn't help but chuckle softly at Mor, but picked up my fork all the same. She was beautiful when she was irritated. Honestly, she was beautiful all the time.

“Don't let these old busybodies boss you around,” she said to Feyre, clinking her wine glass against Feyre's. She had clearly taken a genuine liking to her, and I couldn't help but agree. She seemed like a good person, at least so far.

Cassian said, “Pot. Kettle. Black.” He frowned at Amren's plate. “I always forget how bizarre that is.” He took her plate and dumped half of it on his plate before handing the rest to me.

“I keep telling him to ask before he does that,” I said apologetically to Amren. Though I knew she wasn't angry, it was better to stay in the tiny ancient one’s good graces. She flicked her fingers, and the plate vanished from my scarred hands.

“If you haven't been able to train him after all these centuries, boy, I don't think you’ll make any progress now.” Even though we knew she was older than us, there was something unnerving of being called  _ boy _ when you were nearly six hundred years old.

“You don't—eat?” Feyre asked abruptly. She hadn't said a word since we’d sat down.

Amren grinned wolfishly. “Not this sort of food.”

“Cauldron boil me,” Mor said gulping down her wine. “Can we  _ not _ ?”

Rhys chuckled from across the table. “Remind me to have family dinners more often.”

I’d always thought it was odd, but nice, that Rhys referred to our gatherings as family dinners. We really were the only family each other had. I couldn't help but wonder what Feyre's part in joining us was about. Even my shadows couldn't—or wouldn't—tell me; a rare occurrence indeed.

There didn't seem to be anything wrong with her. At worst, she was nervous. I felt her watching me, specifically my Siphons, as I took a sip of my wine. I held up my hands, the backs towards her. “They're called Siphons. They concentrate and focus our power in battle.”

“The power of stronger Illyrians tends toward ‘incinerate now, ask questions later,’” Rhys said. “They have little magical gifts beyond that—the killing power.”

“The gift of a violent, warmongering people,” Amren added. I nodded. It was the best description, if not the most flattering one. I could feel everyone looking at Cassian and I, even though everyone except Feyre was familiar with our gifts. Rhys explained it all for Feyre's benefit, but I tuned it out. The shadows hadn't given me any warnings about her at all throughout our meal. While that was a relief, it also was perplexing. Trying to merge the idea of this nervous, slip of a girl with the larger than life rumors that had saved Prythian from Amarantha was difficult. She didn't look like she could knock over a feather.

“How did you—I mean, how do you and Lord Cassian—”

Cassian spewed his wine across the table, causing Mor to leap up, swearing a few choice words as she tried to mop up her dress. But Cassian was howling with laughter, and I couldn't stop the smile that was creeping across my face. The poor girl’s face bloomed in deep scarlet.

“Cassian,” Rhys drawled, “is not a lord. Though I'm sure he appreciates you thinking he is.” He looked at all of us. “While we're on the subject, neither is Azriel. Nor Amren. Mor, believe it or not, is the only pure-blooded, titled person in this room.”

Feyre looked genuinely surprised. “I'm half-Illyrian,” he said. “As good as a bastard where the thoroughbred High Fae are concerned.”

“So you—you three aren't High Fae?”

Cassian managed to stop his laughing and be serious, for once in his life. “Illyrians are certainly not High Fae. And glad of it.” He pushed his hair behind his ear, showing her the lack of a pointed tip that he and I both possessed. “And we're not lesser faeries, though some try to call us that. We’re just—Illyrians. Considered expendable aerial cavalry for the Night Court at the best of times, mindless soldier grunts at the worst.”

“Which is most of the time,” I clarified. Cassian wasn't wrong, not by a long shot. It was the reason that in normal circumstances, we wouldn't have likely survived our training to be sitting here to have this dinner. Cassian and I, and maybe even Rhys had he been anyone else's son, wouldn't have survived to our first war had our ranks been enforced and we had been treated accordingly. For that matter, I probably would have never met them, because had my Shadowsinging  abilities not appeared, my step brothers would have seen to it that I  _ accidentally _ ended up dead centuries ago.

Feyre looked pensive, as if she was processing all she had heard, and trying to make sense of it all. “I didn't see you Under the Mountain.”

Silence fell over the table. None of us could look Rhys in the eye. We all knew.

It was Mor who finally spoke. “Because none of us were.”

“Amarantha didn't know they existed. And when someone tried to tell her, they usually found themselves without the mind to do so,” Rhys said coldly. 

“You truly kept this city, and all these people, hidden from her for fifty years?” Feyre seemed to be in a little bit of shock.

Amren spoke. “We will continue to keep this city and these people hidden from our enemies for a great many more.”

“There is not one person in this city who is unaware of what went on outside these borders. Or of the cost.” Mor’s voice was raw, emotion choking her voice. There was such pain in her brown eyes. She was the first one to see Rhys when he returned from Under the Mountain, and no matter how Cassian tried to get her to tell us, she refused. She wouldn't even hint with me either. ‘It isn't my story to tell’, she said. 

But knowing her as I did, as we all did… there wasn't a single one of us that didn't feel guilt for what Rhys had done for us. We all knew that we probably didn't even know the half of what he’d done, what he’d endured. Mor had readily admitted that. But that didn't make it okay.

“How did you all meet?” Feyre asked suddenly, changing the subject. Too bad it was a subject almost as sore as the last one.

Cassian was the fastest on the uptake. “We all hated each other at first.”

As he went into detail of our meeting, our history, I wondered how wise it was, but I didn't say anything. There was really no reason for me to fear what Feyre would do with the information. Rhys trusted her. And Cassian, for all that he didn't have our abilities and could be a loudmouth, was an excellent judge of character. As he talked, I could tell he was assessing Feyre just as much as the rest of us were. As he explained his own childhood, how he came to meet Rhys, I noticed a shift in his expression, in the way he was sitting. His eyes held understanding… respect even. He had sensed something in Feyre beyond even my shadows comprehension.

Feyre took all of it in, even the harsh way bastards were treated. The shadows in her own eyes spoke volumes in their own right.

“And you were friends after that?” she asked.

“No—Cauldron no,” Rhys said. “We hated each other, and only behaved because if one of us got into trouble or provoked the other, then neither of us ate that night. My mother started tutoring Cassian, but it wasn't until Azriel arrived a year later that we decided to be allies.”

Cassian clapped me on the shoulder with a grin, and I let out an over exaggerated sigh. My brothers they may be, but they certainly knew how to get on my nerves. “A new bastard in the camp—and an untrained Shadowsinger to boot. Not to mention he couldn't even  _ fly _ thanks to—”

Mor cut in lazily, “Stay on track, Cassian.”

As appreciative as I was for her intervention, the fact that Cassian was so willing to open his mouth about  _ everything _ , even things that involved more than him, bothered me.

Cassian didn't miss a beat however. “Rhys and I made his life a living hell, Shadowsinger or no. But Rhys’s mother had know Az’s mother, and took him in.” I tuned out his voice at the mention of Rhys’s mother and my own. Rhys's mother had been kind to me from the start—in her mind, it wasn't even a question that she would take me in. I was young, small, and unable to fly thanks to my father allowing my brothers to torture me for all those years. She was especially kind to me, whether out of loyalty to my mother or sympathy for me I never knew. But in the end, it didn't matter. Her kindness was something I would never be able to repay.

“We were stronger, faster—like the Cauldron knew we’d been set apart and wanted us to find each other. Rhys's mother saw it too. Especially as he reached the age of maturity, and all we wanted to do was fuck and fight.”

“Males are horrible creatures, aren't they?” Amren said.

“Repulsive,” Mor said with a click of her tongue. I suppressed a grin. Those were good days.

Cassian shrugged. “Rhys's power grew every day—and everyone, even the camp-lords, knew he could mist  _ everyone _ if he felt like it. And the two of us… we weren't far behind.” He tapped his crimson Siphon. “A bastard Illyrian had never received one of these. Ever. For Az and me to both be appointed them, albeit begrudgingly, had every warrior in every camp across those mountains sizing us up. Only pure-bred pricks get Siphons—born and bred  _ for _ the killing power. It still keeps them up at night, puzzling over where the hell we got it from.”

“Then the War came,” I found myself saying. Feyre sat up straighter, attentive. “And Rhys's father visited our camp to see how his son had fared after twenty years.” I still felt my blood run cold at the mention of him. While quite powerful, he was a very paranoid man, and I wouldn't forget anytime soon what he had made me use my abilities for.

“My father,” Rhys said, swirling the wine in his glass, “saw that his son had not only started to rival him for power, but had allied himself with perhaps the two deadliest Illyrians in history. He got it into his head that if we were given a legion in the War, we might very well turn it against him when we returned.”

Cassian snickered. “So the prick separated is. He gave Rhys command a legion of Illyrians who hated him for being a half-breed, and threw me into a different legion to be a common foot soldier, even when my power outranked any of the war-leaders. Az, he kept for himself as his personal Shadowsinger—mostly for spying and his dirty work.” 

Well, he was half right.

“We only saw each other on battlefields for the seven years the War raged. They’d send around casualty lists amongst the Illyrians, and I read every single one, wondering if I’d see their names on it. But then Rhys got captured—”

“ _ That _ is a story for another time,” Rhys said sharply, effectively cutting Cassian off. Cassian raised his eyebrows, but nodded. Clearly Rhys didn't want to talk about  _ that _ , or  _ her _ , any time soon. He had only just been freed from her clutches again; talking about Amarantha now, even from centuries past… It was just too soon.

“Once I became High Lord,” Rhys continued, as though the interruption had never happened, “I appointed these four to my Inner Circle, and told the rest of my father's old court that if they had a problem with my friends, they could leave. They all did. Turns out, having a half-breed High Lord was made worse by his appointment of two females and two Illyrian bastards.”

“What—what happened to them, then?” Feyre seemed genuinely into the story. As if she cared.

Rhys shrugged, his wings shifting with the movement. “The nobility of the Night Court fall into one of three categories: those who hated me enough that when Amarantha took over, they joined her court and later found themselves dead; those who hated me enough to try to overthrow me and faced the consequences; and those who hated me, but not enough to be stupid and have since tolerated a half-breed’s rule, especially when it so rarely interferes with their miserable lives.”

“Are they—are they the ones who live beneath the mountain?” Judging from her tone, I gathered that she hadn't been to that hell hole yet, but had at least heard the rumors.

Rhys nodded. “In the Hewn City, yes. I gave it to them, for not being fools. They're happy to stay there, rarely leaving, ruling themselves and being as wicked as they please, for all eternity.”

“The Court of Nightmares,” Mor said, sucking on her tooth. I knew how much pain that underground prison brought her; even just thinking about it. I wanted nothing more than to gather her up in my arms and tell her that they couldn't hurt her anymore, even though I was sure she'd shove me away and tell me she was fine. Truthfully, they couldn't hurt her anymore. But old wounds, like the one on her stomach...some of those scarred. It was ones like those that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

“And what is this court?” Feyre gestured to everyone sitting at the table.

It was Cassian who answered. “The Court of Dreams.”

“And you?” She asked Amren and Mor.

“Rhys offered to make me his Second. No one had ever asked me before, so I said yes, to see what it might be like. I found I enjoyed it.”

A prayer of thanks to the Mother and the Cauldron for all our sakes that she did.

Mor leaned back in her seat, and I couldn't help but watch her. I was curious how much she would divulge of her history, of Cassian's part… and mine.

“I was a dreamer born into the Court of Nightmares,” she said, twirling a curl around her finger absently. “So I got out.”

Straight to the point. No surprise.

“What's your story, then?” Cassian said, jerking his chin at Feyre. Rhys shrugged at Feyre, who looked at him with surprise. She clearly thought she was the only one who nothing about her fellow dinner guests.

She straightened in her seat. “I was born to a wealthy merchant family, with two older sisters and parents who only cared about their money and social standing,” she began. I couldn't help but notice the similarity to Mor’s situation, but my shadows didn't not indicate a lie.

“My mother died when I was eight; my father lost his fortune three years later. He sold everything to pay off his debts, moved us into a hovel, and didn't bother to find work while he let us slowly starve for years. I was fourteen when the last of the money ran out, along with the last of the food. He wouldn't work—couldn't, because the debtors came and shattered his leg in front of us. So I went into the forest and taught myself to hunt. And I kept us all alive, if not near starvation at times, for five years. Until… everything happened.”

No one spoke. Her story was sad, but she hadn't lied. She had clearly not let her circumstances break her, if she was sitting here before us now. And it was those circumstances that led her to Prythian.

“You taught yourself to hunt,” Cassian said, breaking the silence. “What about to fight?”

Feyre shook her head, and Cassian braced his arms on the table. “Lucky for you, you've just found yourself a teacher.”

Feyre looked like she was about to protest, but she suddenly stopped, contemplating his offer. It didn't surprise me he had; he probably saw a kindred spirit in her, for the life she had led and survived. Especially when taking Under the Mountain into consideration, which I knew that no one but Rhys would ever understand.

“You don't think it sends a bad message if people see me learning to fight—using weapons?” Feyre asked. As soon as the words left her mouth, her expression made it clear she regretted asking. It was probably something drilled into her head by the High Lord of Inaction himself, and who knew who else. Despite being a former war-band leader, Tamlin was laughably pacifist and weak.

“Let me tell you two things,” Mor said suddenly, the soft venom in her voice telling me she knew far more about this than she had let on. “As someone who has perhaps been in your shoes before. One, you have left the Spring Court.” Feyre involuntarily winced at her words, guilt written all over her face, but my shadows assured me it was for betraying Tamlin. Interesting. 

“If that doesn't send a message, for good or for bad, then your training will not, either. Two,” Mor laid her palm flat on the table, “I once lived in a place where the opinions of others mattered. It suffocated me, nearly broke me. So you’ll understand me, Feyre, when I say that I know what you feel, and I know what they tried to do to you, and that with enough courage, you can say to hell with a reputation.” Her voice gentled, and the tension in the room disappeared with her quiet rage. “You do what you love, what  _ you _ need.”

Feyre stayed silent, processing everything. After a long moment, she met Cassian’s gaze. “I’ll think about it.” She turned to Rhys, who had been eyeing her with carefully guarded hope. “I accept your offer—to work with you. To earn my keep. And help with Hybern in whatever way I can.” I raised an eyebrow at Rhys, whose expression hadn't changed. It would have been nice to know that  _ we _ were being watched as well.

“Good,” Rhys replied. “Because we start tomorrow.”

“Where? And what?” she sputtered. 

Rhys interlaced his fingers and rested them on the table. I didn't like the look on his face. It was too serious. “Because the King of Hybern is indeed about to launch a war, and he wants to resurrect Jurian to do so.”

“Bullshit,” Cassian spat. “There is no way to do that.”

Amren had gone very still, even for her. She knew something, or at least knew the likely next course of action. 

Mor groaned. “Why would the king want to resurrect  _ Jurian?  _ He was so odious. All he liked to do was talk about himself.”

“That's what I want to find out,” Rhys said. “And how the king plans to do it.”

Amren at last said, “Word will have reached him about Feyre’s Making. He knows it's possible for the dead to be remade.”

“All seven High Lords would have to agree to that,” Mor countered. “There's not a chance it happens. He’ll take another route.” Her eyes narrowed as she turned to Rhys. “All the slaughtering—the massacres at the temples. You think it's tied to this?”

“I know it's tied to this. I didn't want to tell you until I knew for certain. But Azriel confirmed that they'd raided the memorial in Sangravah three days ago. They're looking for something—or found it.” I nodded and Mor looked at me in surprise. I shrugged apologetically.

“That—that's why the ring and the finger bone vanished after Amarantha died,” Feyre breathed. “For this. But who…” She froze. “They never caught the Attor, did they?”

“No. No they didn't,” Rhys said quietly. He turned to Amren. “How does one take an eye and a finger bone and make it into a man again? And how do we stop it?”

Amren frowned into her untouched wine. “You already know how to find the answer. Go to the Prison. Talk to the Bone Carver.”

“Shit,” Mor and Cassian said in unison. I had to agree with them. No one wanted to deal with that sneaky bastard. There was literally no way to prepare yourself if you came across him, whether intentionally or accidentally, and no way to know if he would be willing to give us even the time of day. One time, the Bone Carver had spoken to me for a short while, merely out of intrigue for what the shadows could say. The shadows were unnerved the entire time, only speaking to me if they had to. Once his curiosity was satisfied, he never acknowledged my presence again. Probably better for me in the long run.

“Perhaps you would be more effective, Amren,” Rhys suggested calmly.

“I will not set foot in the Prison, Rhysand, and you know it,” Amren hissed. “So go yourself, or send one of these dogs to do it for you.” Cassian grinned at her mockingly, and she snapped hers once in return. Though I was largely used to this, my shadows shuddered for being so close to her presence, almost cowering. An angry Amren spelled the end of whatever unlucky fool managed to piss her off.

I shook my head. “I’ll go. The Prison sentries know me—what I am.” It wasn't anything new. Of everyone present, save Amren, I was the most familiar with that place, and I understood her reasons for never wanting to set foot in there again. It was uncomfortable, but as long as I kept my eyes forward and my shadows close, I found no trouble from its inhabitants. Mor narrowed her eyes at Amren, her displeasure evident.

“If anyone is going to the Prison,” Rhys said before Mor could open her mouth, “it’s me. And Feyre.”

“What?” Mor demanded, palms flat on the table. I had to agree with her. Feyre had only just offered to help us, and now Rhys wanted to take her to the Prison? It was practically suicide.

“He won't talk to Rhys,” Amren said, “or to Azriel. Or to any of us. We’ve got nothing to offer him. But an immortal with a mortal soul…” She stared at Feyre hard. “The Bone Carver might be willing indeed to talk to her.”

We all looked at Feyre. Waiting for her to, understandably so, beg not to go.

“Your choice, Feyre,” Rhys said casually.

“How bad can it be?” she asked. I felt sympathy for the girl; she really didn't know what she was getting herself into. Cassian looked at her seriously, and I knew the answer before it even passed his lips:

“Bad.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought! All comments and suggestions are welcome, & if you have a POV/scene you would really like to see, please let me know! Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also, I have a writing Tumblr! If anyone is interested in talking & discussing ACOTAR, ACOMAF, or giving suggestions/asking questions, I can be found at _<http://kitashiwrites.tumblr.com>_.
> 
> Hope to see you there!


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